


Hands of Design

by BeyondLividity



Category: Iron Giant (1999)
Genre: 1958, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Artists, Christmas Presents, Confused Emotions, Constructive Criticism Welcome, F/M, Holiday Dinners, Introspection, Love Confessions, POV Third Person Limited, Painting, Post-Canon, Reference to space exploration, Rockwell Maine, Slow Build, Smoking, attempt at poetry, creative struggles, pottery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28112532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondLividity/pseuds/BeyondLividity
Summary: A little over a year has passed since the Iron Giant sacrificed himself to save the citizens of Rockwell. While most returned to a routine way of living, Dean focused on the strong emotions that continuously pulled him towards a familiar face. A familiar face who may not receive a gift this year from Dean due to his indecisiveness.
Relationships: Annie Hughes/Dean McCoppin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Hands of Design

Dean remembered the last time he worked with clay instead of metal. Trying to expand his expertise further didn’t exactly work out for the best. Though he managed to churn out several satisfactory items before, that final piece drilled into some insecurities left otherwise unexplored. The sculpture came out all deformed, sagging on one side and towering with sharp edges on the other. He chose to scrap the misshapen vessel after it failed to meet his envisioned expectations for the third time. 

Standing at a distance, he acknowledged the pottery wheel sitting in the corner. Debating if he was willing to take a chance. On the upside, he may end up creating a stunning piece for Annie. Something she may even want to show off in her house when people stopped by.

Yet, the looming downside was he had limited time. He couldn't afford several mistakes with Christmas only a week away. He avoided the wheel, cursing himself for delaying the creative process. 

He migrated to the opposite corner of the warehouse, where his easel awaited. The adjacent window overlooked the distant frozen lake. The scenery offered occasional sparks of inspiration whenever Dean slid into a creative rut. Snow pattered against the glass, melting upon contact from the heat generating inside the large cluttered space. 

Dean examined the faint charcoal lines traced upon the canvas, then his gaze drifted down to the pile of paintings stacked against the wall. Each one a near-perfect image of the lake and forest outside. Creative rut indeed.

 _You could always gift her one of those,_ he thought. Hogarth once said he was surprised Dean wasn't able to pawn off his art to the citizens of Rockwell. Then again, the kid wasn't exactly what one might call an "artist," but he was visionary nevertheless. 

No. No, Annie deserved something better than a half-attempted, repetitive rendering of the same trees. Of the same sky. The same water. She'd seen all these subjects several times already. Whenever she drove Hogarth over to visit, she'd stick around for a few minutes, holding brief discussion with Dean before slipping back into her car and heading down to work at the diner. She commented once on how peaceful it was out here, tucked away from the world among the mass of trees and junk. 

A smile crossed Dean's face as he recalled how she corrected "junk" to "scrap metal" with a hand lifting to her lips and a light blush spreading over her face. As if her correction changed anything. As if she said something offensive in the first place. _Yes, Annie deserved better._

Grabbing his palette off a teetering tower of rusted wagon wheels and his brush from the easel, Dean disregarded the thin charcoal outline of the lake. Dabbing his brush into a light blend of orange and red oil paint, his wrist passed over the canvas in one continuous sweep. A streak of color highlighted the beginnings of dusk. 

A memory of her complementing one of his metal sculptures weaved through his mind as oil drained into the sky. He recalled how close she stood to him as they exited the warehouse, leaving behind the giant hiding in plain sight. How she smiled at him as she clung to the door frame, her red hair hanging in her face. How they laughed awkwardly together before all hell broke loose in those next few hours. _Surely his imagination didn't conjure up those memories. And surely, what he felt in those moments..._

Dean worked tirelessly to create the rest of the backdrop before picking up a clean brush and dipping it in white paint. His thumb pulled back and released the bristles, again and again, adding stars to the red and purple cosmos that opened up on the canvas. He wiped his hands off on a threadbare rag that hung from the corner of the easel. Stray remnants of paint lingered under his nails and in the grooves of his fingerprints. 

Now the waiting began. It would be a few hours before he could add the next layer. After staring at the painting, Dean took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The decision to include the arm of the Milky Way curling across the sky did in fact enhanced the scene, but he never could quite replicate the majesty of the universe in its entirety. 

With his fingers moving from his eyes to massage his temple, Dean disappeared into the bathroom near the back door of the warehouse. He splashed cold water on his face and snagged a few paper towels off an already dwindling roll, patting his skin dry. His hair had grown out more, and he wondered if he needed to shave again as his fingers ran over the sides of his jaw. His full beard scratched against his touch.

He decided it didn't matter. His mind was preoccupied with more important things. _What if Annie didn't want a painting? What if she really wanted something like Hogarth was getting her - a thin silver bracelet and a handmade card?_

Dean rubbed the back of his neck as he leaned on the sink, his glasses dangling from his other hand. His right shoulder was killing him. _A handmade card._ He released a low chuckle, eyes lifting to his own dark irises. He supposed he could write her something. _Poetry, maybe? No, no. Romantic words never exactly flowed correctly on the page for him. Would a few sentences scribbled on some paper with some small store-bought package even be_ _enough?_

Sighing, he put his glasses back on and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He tucked one in his mouth as he put the pack away and dug his lighter out of his jeans. The flickering flame cast orange and white shadows over his face. Taking a deep drag, he leaned against the sink again. Smoke unfurled over his lips, and the red embers from the paper burned in the darkness of the mirror.

 _Why was he going to all this effort anyway?_ Annie seemed to rarely look in his direction when she came around. She was too busy fussing over Hogarth to carry on any long, meaningful conversations. No, perhaps that wasn't necessarily true. There were several occasions that Dean could name off the top of his head where she actually seemed invested in what he had to say. Small exchanges about work and related stress, the advancements in town as new stores opened up, and how gas prices were rising. Mundane topics, sure. But at least was something. Whatever happened though, to those fleeting moments of eye-contact they had between them a year ago? Those short-lived moments of laughter, of hands placed around each other's shoulders, of frantic concern for not only Hogarth's safety but each other's as well? _Did he misread everything?_

Letting out a slightly pained laugh, Dean took another inhale. He decided to just finish the painting first before deeming it a lost cause. He returned to his easel, sitting on a nearby stool as he finished his cigarette. He watched the snow continue to fall outside, contemplating to himself what Annie and Hogarth might be up to. 

^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^°^

The sun sank further behind the trees as Dean resumed his work, the paint mostly dry now. A fresh cup of hotly brewed tea from his office rested on the stool closeby. He sketched out the dark silhouettes of the imposing pines with black oil paint, striving to perfect the imagery of messy winged branches. Leaning in closer, he added soft, dark blue highlights to accentuate the shadows.

After more time had passed, Dean grabbed another sip of his tea and glanced over his shoulder at the clock towards the middle of the warehouse. Small mountains of broken kitchen appliances surrounded its tall wooden frame. _Had two hours really gone by?_

Dean added some finishing touches, then stepped back, mug in hand. His face fell, panic washing over him. What was he _thinking_? The dark trees took up more than two-thirds of the painting, with the stars and glorious red sky barely peeking through towards the top half.

Letting out a frustrated yell, he kicked at the easel. It crashed to the ground, taking the painting along with it. Dean rubbed his face before placing his palm to his mouth. What now? How did his art get away from him so much that he created something so flawed? He had nothing to give Annie. Nothing.

He could create sculptures and other art with ease, so why was this posing such a challenge? He knew he didn't want her present from him to be something she'd already come across in his warehouse. And the metal sculptures didn't seem special enough now for someone like her. He needed to create something different, right? Something new and captivating. Maybe he actually did care, though perhaps a bit too deeply, about...

The thought of Annie resurfaced and Dean pushed it aside. He released a deep sigh and decided to go for a walk. Just to escape the suffocating heat for a moment, which only increased the longer he stood there, staring at endless aisles of scrap. He'd figure out a better plan tomorrow for Annie's gift. He escaped through the back door with his cup in hand and ushered out into the snow. His black shoes crunched over the field and became soaked as he made his way to the tree line. After some great distance, he made it to the little makeshift dock by the lake. The water level never fully returned to its natural state after the giant flooded it out around a year ago. 

Hogarth had helped Dean build the dock earlier that summer, and they ate the sandwiches that Annie had made for them during their break. He recalled that the diner had scheduled her on the late shift again that day. It seemed more often than not, they barely managed to cross each other's paths. Annie had Hogarth and her job, and Dean had his small business alongside his craft. _Could we even make time for each other if something were to happen between us? If something were to happen..._

He lowered himself onto the dock, the wood creaking under his weight. His mind wandered as he looked up to the open night sky. The moon hovered in the darkness, held aloft by invisible strings. Dean squinted as he swore he noticed a faint "star" no bigger than the tip of a pencil traveling on a solid linear path. Though he blamed his weariness, he recalled how all the news coverage in Rockwell announced soon after the New Year that America had officially cemented their involvement in the "Race to Space." The Explorer satellite completed a successful launch and made it into orbit. That memory of reading the headline article alongside so many citizens who took immediate pride in their country came linked with the excitment erupting from Hogarth. The kid enthused about the subject for days, theorizing with Dean what could possibly exist out there beyond the atmosphere. He assumed Hogarth did something similar to Annie when Sputnik left Earth.

A smile lingered briefly on Dean's face as he slowly sipped his lukewarm tea. He thought of how much and yet how little his life changed since the iron giant left them behind. Snowflakes settled in his hair, and a sharp wind cut through his body. His light blue sweater and jeans offered little protection against the night's chill. As he deeply breathed in the crisp air, he realized something. The smile turned bittersweet.

 _That's right. Not much has changed. No matter how much I pretend that it_ _has_. He took another drink, his eyes staring out over the rim of the cup and at the tops of the trees. _I suppose I'll never stop missing her._


End file.
